Dreamscape
by Orangeblossom Brambleburr
Summary: (Completed 01/02) Another challenge by =NeekerBreeker= on Bit of Earth; a childhood scene. Nonslash for a change....


Title: Dreamscape  
Series: N/A  
Fandom: Lord of the Rings  
Author: Orangeblossom  
Email: rice_al@yahoo.com  
Rating: PG  
Summary: A challenge by =NeekerBreeker= on Bit of Earth; a childhood scene.  
Archiving: Ask first, Please  
Chapters: 1  
Status: Complete  
Year Completed: January 2002  
Disclaimer: As much as I would love to claim dear Samwise as my own, he's actually Tolkien's, as is Frodo. Rivendell, and hordes of other things I can only wish I could imagine.  
Notes, Dedications & Thanks: For a change, this is nonslash (it would be super-ick to have it slashy as Sam's only 7 in this story). Dedicated to =ness= who issued the challenge, and to Kevin, my friend, fellow Karaoke- junkie and beta-reader.  
  
  
  
* "For a while he and Frodo lay back and watched the torchlight, and the men moving to and fro speaking in hushed voices. Then suddenly Frodo fell asleep." *  
  
The Two Towers  
  
  
The cavernous room behind the falls was surprisingly warm, and Frodo suddenly felt the weariness of his journey bearing on him. And yet he felt rather light; the prospect of a truly good meal, the comforting buzz of Faramir's men's voices and the security of leaning against Sam's warm body made his eyes suddenly blur, though with sleep or tears he couldn't say. It was so nice to sit here in the warm fiery glow, smelling the food as it was prepared...he yawned, closing his eyes. For a change the treacherous trinket round his neck seemed lighter...in fact, as his strangely slow mind turned to it, it seemed he could barely feel its familiar weight against his skin...  
  
His hand went instinctively to his throat to finger the fine silver chain but met only with his own warm flesh. Frodo's eyes flew open and he stifled a yelp and dropped his hands, but something about them caught his eye. They were clean and smooth, the graceful, unspoiled hands of a pampered young gentlehobbit. Very young indeed; neither lines nor veins marred their creamy surface. His eyes widened as he turned his fingers over and over--he would have sworn that they were somehow a strangers' hands, but they were unmistakably his own. There was the tiny scar next to his right index finger, the three freckles on the back of his left hand, the nails on both bitten almost to the quick (a habit he'd had since he'd grown teeth to chew with).  
  
After long, confused moments of marveling at his hands, Frodo realized that he was lit by far more than rosy torches. He was sitting on neat stone steps, warm in the sunlight. Bag End's steps, he recognized with a start, and neither Sam nor Faramir's men were anywhere to be seen. He leapt to his feet, his mind reeling. How had he gotten home? Had he gone mad? What was happening to him? His eyes caught sight of his reflection in the spotless glass of the side window and his mouth dropped open, scattering all other questions.  
  
His features were familiar, but they were plump and youthful, unlined by fifty years of life or the toils of his long journey. The strange young fingers caressed his smooth, rounded cheek. He looked scarcely more than twenty!  
  
Amazed, he sat back on the step. What had he been doing? His mind seemed hazy now, as if a heavy morning fog had rolled in over his thoughts. A book lay at his feet, had he been reading it? He must have been very involved in it to have lost track of time, and yet it seemed that images from the story hovered just beyond his reach. A quest? Yes. Frightening and dark, so terrible that he couldn't bring himself to return to the book. It was just as well, he supposed, it didn't do to get so lost in stories and dreams that one didn't know what was real. And this was real...his brow furrowed. Wasn't it?  
  
The Gaffer's cheerful whistling broke his reverie. Frodo stood, book in hand, and opened the round door to Bag End. Inside it was pleasingly cool and dark, the smell of bread and apples and beer mingling with the smoke from Bilbo's favorite Pipe. The dear man was out...where had he gone? Again Frodo's brows drew together. Why were things so hazy? It seemed his mind was smeared like paints left carelessly in the rain. He shook his head sharply and placed his book on a shelf. He felt light and vital and eager to be out in the sun. Surely there would be some doings about that he might join in; he had only been in this part of the Shire a year but he knew already where a lad might find some mischief.  
  
He headed out the door and all but fell over a small form that knelt in the path, carefully pulling small weeds from the beds nearest the door. He let out a grunt as he steadied himself. "Do watch yourself, Sam," he scolded, dusting his shirt.  
  
The small boy leaped to his feet, a stricken expression on his round face. "I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo sir, I didn't reckon you'd come back out so quickly..." he smiled appealingly. He'd lost both his front teeth but thus far only one had grown in; it was too large for his face and gave him a fearfully lopsided look. The sun had browned and freckled his cheeks and his snubbed nose and had lightened his ruddy curls to ginger. He stood there sheepishly, spade clutched in his dirty hand. "Where y'off to, Mr. Frodo?"  
  
Frodo sighed. He was fond of little Sam, but the boy insisted on trailing him everywhere he went. It was amusing by times, but he didn't really want to babysit for wide-eyed children, particularly ones who were far too curious. He knew from experience that it would be pointless to lie to Sam-- the boy would simply follow him. Inwardly cursing the Gaffer for toting his lastborn along he manufactured a smile and ruffled Sam's curls. "Oh, I'm just off and about, I have a few things to attend to."  
  
"Can I come?"  
  
The inevitable question. Undoubtedly the Gaffer would drum that sort of impertinence out of the boy eventually--no one knew his place and kept to it as faithfully as the Gaffer--but how could you argue with such innocent brown eyes? "Better not this time, little fellow," he said and started off without a backwards glance.  
  
The small hobbit behind him sighed and dropped back to his weeding. He watched Frodo's departing frame sadly--he held master Frodo in a kind of awe and whenever he was able he'd abandon his chores and follow wherever Frodo lead. It had led him into trouble, particularly when the Gaffer noticed that he'd left work undone. He gazed at the half-weeded flowerbeds and bit his lip, priorities warring in his mind. Adventure won out over responsibility and he dropped his spade to scuttle after Frodo, keeping low to the bushes so he wouldn't be seen.  
  
Frodo inhaled the sweet, harvest-heavy air as he walked the path that cut alongside the great sweeping fields of the Shire. He felt happy down to the tips of his toes, as if he had just come home after a long absence; he couldn't help but sing a bit of one of Bilbo's old songs to himself as he strolled. He was of half a mind to stir up some trouble with the Sackville- Bagginses; particularly he was inclined to toss a bit of mud at the home of Lobelia and Otho, who were most outspoken in their dislike of him.  
  
As if on cue he heard the rumble of a cart approaching. Lightening fast he'd dived into a stand of bushes, heedless of his neatly pressed clothes. From his hiding place in the shrubbery, he identified the cart as belonging to the selfsame Otho. "Such luck!" he laughed to himself, scanning the ground for some sort of projectile. There was no mud, but a store of small, round pebbles gave him a rakish idea. Quickly he took one up and with careful aim threw it. The stone struck neatly on the pony's flank, the startled beast shying rather violently. He suppressed a giggle at the stream of curses that burst from the cart and plucked another stone to throw.  
  
A small, grubby hand caught at his white sleeve, spoiling his aim so that the pebble bounced and skittered harmlessly over the road. He whirled so quickly that he scarcely escaped knocking heads with little Sam.  
  
"Blast it, Samwise Gamgee!" he hissed.  
  
"Oh, Mr. Frodo," the lad began, twisting his chubby hands together, "I couldn't help but follow, I thought you might be meaning to have an adventure like Mr. Bilbo had, you see? But I couldn't watch you throw rocks at poor Pony, he ain't done nothin' to us...please, Mr. Frodo, please don't throw no more rocks at Pony!"  
  
Frodo sighed; it no longer mattered as Otho had gotten the pony back under control and was cursing and muttering as the cart began to move. He had an odd urge to explain to this brown-skinned scrap why he'd done such a thing. Feeling a combination of annoyance that he should even consider explaining and guilt that he had picked on a harmless pony rather than the owners he truly disliked, he turned on the boy, pulling him to his feet. "Come on, there'll be no more adventuring today," he said, rather more sternly than he'd normally speak, "Best get you back to the Gaffer where you belong."  
  
Sam looked down, chastened, and allowed himself to be led back towards Bag End, biting his lip all the way. He knew the Gaffer would be furious with him and he had an unpleasant sense of neglected duty gnawing in his stomach. He'd be punished, but really it was worth it, Sam thought.  
  
Frodo glanced down at the reluctant boy he was toting and couldn't help but smile slightly. He *was* a dear little lad, even if he was so often underfoot.  
  
"Hi, there you are, boy!" the Gaffer's voice rang out the moment he'd spotted them. "Irresponsible lad, leaving the beds unweeded, and bothering young Master Frodo as well!"  
  
"I'm sorry, Mr. Gamgee, I went for a walk and took Sam with me; I shan't interrupt his work again today," Frodo said smoothly. From the corners of his eyes he could see relief and happiness rosying Sam's round cheeks.  
  
The Gaffer looked at him for a long moment, looked longer still on his son, clearly unbelieving but unwilling to say so. "Begging your pardon, young Master," he said, taking Sam's arm. "I'll keep 'im out from under your feet now."  
  
To his own surprise, Frodo smiled and made a dismissive gesture. "Not to worry," he said and turned to leave. He heard the Gaffer muttering as he returned to his work, Sam following obediently behind him; Frodo paused at the foot of the path to watch father and son. Once the older man's back was turned, Sam turned and favored Frodo with a smile bursting with childish adoration. He waved in return as he headed back up the path. Yes, he thought to himself, Sam was a dear fellow.  
  
He surveyed the fields again, no longer interested in mischief. He was rather hungry, actually, and thought he might impose on one of his cousins; the Tooks had a brand-new baby he might look at and they were bound to put forth a proper meal for a hungry tweenager...  
  
A hand on his shoulder jolted him. He turned, expecting that little Sam had escaped the Gaffer again, and his mouth twitched.  
  
"Mr. Frodo, wake up, they've set dinner for us, I know you'll want to eat..." It most certainly was Sam, but not the grubby child he'd anticipated. At once the quest bore down on him, the ring suddenly so heavy it seemed to choke the breath from him. But he pushed aside the grasping power of the ring as he studied Sam.  
  
He looked tired; Frodo watched as he plunged his face into a basin of cold water that one of Faramir's men had brought them, refreshing himself with the coolness. He hadn't slept of course; he rarely did these days. Even after he'd refreshed himself Sam looked painfully old, the familiar roundness looked as if it was being leached from his body moment by moment. There were unfamiliar hollows to his cheeks and faint new cares about his eyes. Frodo sighed as he stretched, fighting to keep the last shreds of his dream, his memory intact.  
  
The supper table was laden with more food than either of them had seen in quite some time. Even Sam's stewed rabbit, savory as it had been with wild herbs gathered from the track paled in comparison. And there was more than enough to go around; for once they could both eat their fill. Frodo chewed thoughtfully and studied Sam again; how often had Sam taken less for himself that Frodo might have more?  
  
As if conscious of Frodo's gaze, Sam turned to him and smiled. For a moment, it was the same open, adoring smile he'd had as a child, the one Frodo had seen in his dream. To see it in this place, on this quest seemed strange, but more comforting than the feast itself. His heart ached for the sight, ached over those innocent days at Bag End. Yet despite his cares and the weight of the ring round his neck, he was happy. 


End file.
